


Tinted

by yeaka



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh!
Genre: Angst, Ficlet, Gen, Implied Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-28
Updated: 2013-02-28
Packaged: 2017-12-03 21:43:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/702943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mokuba tries to squeeze some feeling out of his brother, who might be a rock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tinted

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Yugioh or any of its contents, and I'm not making any money off this.
> 
> This is a redrabbled version of the extremely old story, 'Deliciously Tainted,' off my old FFN account.

You never say it, of course. Even if you’re cold, you’ve never been cruel to me. And you’re cold to everyone. You’ve never once said you blame me, even though it’s my fault that our mother’s dead. It’s my fault that our father had to work so hard, and get in that car, and die in that crash. If it weren’t for me, you could’ve gone to live with relatives—they could afford one child, surely. Anyone at the orphanage would’ve taken you, if only you would leave without me. You were talented, and intelligent, and beautiful. You still are.

But you wouldn’t let me go. And now it’s my fault that you have to work so hard, just like it’s my fault that you couldn’t run away from Gozaburo. It’s my fault you took every blow. Sometimes I wonder if it’s my fault you’re dead inside—if it’s my fault you never smile.

You’re hunched over your laptop now, just like you always are. I got back from soccer practice an hour ago; I’m still in my uniform, still sweaty and exhausted, and my hair’s still up in a ponytail. You picked me up, but you didn’t ask me how it went. I’m lying on my stomach on your bed, because the thought of being away from you _hurts._

Your room is cold and uninviting, just like every centimeter of our mansion that isn’t my room. Your walls are as empty and uninviting as when Gozaburo still lived here, and you won’t let me paint them lest you lose your space for even a day. Your shelves are empty, all your clothes are put away, and your floor is pristine. Your computer is always on, desk always ready.

You haven’t looked over at me once. Sometimes I measure the space between your blinks—they don’t happen often enough to be healthy. You’re too skinny. You’re perfect. But I worry about you all the time.

My eyes are getting heavy, and I mumble for no particular reason, “Seto.”

The repetitive typing noise halts abruptly. You don’t answer, though, and you still don’t look over.

I say, “I love you.” Simply and bluntly. It’s the fourth time this month I’ve said it out of the blue. It’s Yugi’s idea, but I’m not stupid enough to tell you that.

After a minute, your head finally turns. You drawl with a bit of a frown, “Why?”

Why? That’s such a strange answer. Do I need a reason? Don’t you know? I’m not exactly subtle. I cling to you like adhesive tape. “Because you’re wonderful. I’m so lucky to have you. I love you.”

You lift an eyebrow, repeating numbly, “I mean why tell me this?”

For all your intellect, you never were good with feelings. I almost can’t understand your question. I don’t get off your bed to talk to you—I fist my hands in your sheets, wondering if I can get you to let me stay tonight. Sometimes I can. I look you right in your dazzling cerulean eyes and tell you, “Because sometimes you act like a robot, and I’m hoping a bit of human contact and affection might melt your ice-heart. I want you to know you’re not alone, and you don’t need to be so closed-off. ...I love you and I want you to know it.”

You blink at me, before stating dryly, “Awfully deep for a thirteen year-old, aren’t you?” Yes, and you’re proud of it. I can hear it in your voice, even if you’re burying your pride in sarcasm.

I counter, “Awfully cold for an eighteen year-old, aren’t you?” I’m pushing it; it’s well past my bedtime. Your frown deepens.

All tricks over, you glance back at the screen before fixing me with a firm, steady gaze. “Mokuba, you know I have to do this. I need to work hard to make Kaiba Corporation the best it can be.” And more than it was under Gozaburo. You need to beat him. That’s what you want to say, I know, but you don’t.

I tell you anyway, quietly, “You’re already better than him.”

You let out a long breath. Then you turn back to your work.

That’s the worst fate our conversations could have, and I pull you back with another, more needy, “Seto, _I love you._ I’m serious. You don’t need to work so hard—you’ve already made the business so much better than it ever was under him, but that doesn’t even matter to me—I adore you for _you_ and I don’t want us to have more success or more money if it means you miss whole chunks of your life like this. You’re wasting away; it’s eating you up. And it’s hard for me to watch, because you mean the world to me.”

You’re looking at me again, blue eyes a little wider than usual. I don’t stop, now that I’ve started—my cheeks are flushed and I know I’m going a bit beyond brotherly, but I don’t care. “Seto, you’re an amazing person. You’re absolutely brilliant, gifted and ingenious. You’re so handsome that you literally take my breath away. I know you have warmth in you—you’re always there for me when I need you, and I never feel as safe as I do when I’m in your arms. I just wish I could be in them _more_ —that you would stop typing on that stupid thing all night and come just _be with me_ for a bit.” I feel like an idiot. You stare at me like I’ve sprouted a second head.

Then I roll over. Because as perfect as you are, you’re maddening to watch. I bury my head in your pillow, not sure if I want to smile or scowl at the thick scent of _you_ all over it.

After a few minutes pass, I hear the sound of clicking keys resume. The air fills with it—you’re back to working at a break-neck speed. I curl up in your bed, with no intention of leaving.

My eyes are still tired. It’s as if my confession’s winded me, and I’m exhausted and upset. It’s still a long time before I fall asleep, but I’m almost there when your chair scrapes against the floor.

I don’t want false hope, and I’m too tired to roll over. Then the bed dips down with your weight—your warm front flattens into my back. Your long arms wrap around me, holding me close, and your chin hooks over my shoulder, chestnut hair tickling my cheek.

You hold me so tight I could burst.


End file.
